


Gloves

by albertblithe (Gabbaroni)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Blood, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, This wasn't supposed to have smut but here we are, it's cute ok you should read it fam, it's not super graphic tho, like Joe gets in a fight because of course he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabbaroni/pseuds/albertblithe
Summary: George can hear Perco’s voice shouting at him to leave it. Funny how his voice of reason sounds so much more like Frank than himself. But George ignores it. Instead, he approaches softly, almost treading on his toes, that is, until the slouching figure crumples to the ground.





	

George walks down the street adjacent to his own with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets and shoulders pulled up to his ears. He’s going as quickly as he can, thinking of nothing but the warmth of his bed, watching nothing but his breath condensing in the air. He’s wearing a cap over his head and a hood over the cap and he still isn’t sure he can feel the tips of his ears. 

He almost turns the corner to his street when he hears a weird sound. Really, it’s a series of sounds; there’s a grunt, a smack, and a whine, before the sound of fleeting footsteps. Searching around, George finds the source. It’s coming from the small space between an apartment building and a laundromat. Creeping closer, it’s obvious there’s a figure there, leaning against the bricks. 

George can hear Perco’s voice shouting at him to leave it. Funny how his voice of reason sounds so much more like Frank than himself. But George ignores it. Instead, he approaches softly, almost treading on his toes, that is, until the slouching figure crumples to the ground. Then he’s running, slipping on a sheet of ice before he catches himself on the building. 

He crouches down, but doesn’t know what he should do, really. The collapsed guy doesn’t seem to fully comprehend that George is there and George doesn’t want to scare him. But when he gently touches the collar of his coat, George’s hand comes away warm and wet. Holding it to the light, it’s certainly red. 

“You’re bleeding.” George says, putting manners aside and swiping at his chin to find blood there, too. 

The guy looks at him without moving his head and laughs a little, “Good eye.” 

“I’m gonna call 911,” George says, reaching in his pocket for his phone. 

The guys grabs his arm, saying, “No, I don’t want it.” And George is surprised he can react that quickly at all. 

When his hand weakly slips away, an idea occurs to George. He can hear Perco yelling at him again. 

“Fine. I’m taking you home.” He reaches down and wraps an arm around the stranger’s back, using the wall to help them up. He expected more of a protest, but the guy says nothing, only grunts as he’s moved and shuffles limply when George pulls him forward. That can’t be good.

In the elevator of his apartment building, George lets the stranger lean against the mirrored wall. Under the too-bright lights, he can get a look at him. He’s darkly colored, kind of like George is, his hair is cropped short, and his eyes are closed, squeezing tight and releasing as the elevator takes them up. 

On his couch, George helps him out of his coat and out of his gloves, soaked with what George assumes is the fleeting man’s blood. With warm water from the tap and a washcloth, George guides him to let his head rest on the back of the couch and, as gently as he can, wipes the blood from his mouth, chin, and neck.

“What’s your name?” George says from his seat on his coffee table; he does his best to keep his voice soft as he works at a cut above his eyebrow. 

“‘m not supposed to talk to strangers.” His eyes are closed again. 

“You’re already in my apartment. I think you missed your opportunity.”

The guy smiles and with decent clarity says, “I’m Joe.”

“Hi, Joe. I’m George.” He gets up and rinses the washcloth in the sink, shrugging out of his own coat and pulling the cap off his head. 

When he comes back, Joe hasn’t moved, but his breathing is even and visible from across the room, so George figures it’s alright. 

Smoothing the cloth over Joe’s neck, he asks, “What were you doing in the alley?”

Joe rolls his head back and forth like he doesn’t want to answer, and George is prepared to let it go before he says, “I was arguing.”

“Does arguing usually involve fists for you?” George laughs a little. 

Joe shrugs, “Depends on how much of an asshole you are.”

George takes Joe by the wrist and cleans his hand, cleans his other one and shoves up Joe’s long sleeves to get at his already bruising arms. 

When he first sees it, he skates right over it without thought. He reads the words on Joe’s arm when the cloth goes over them a second time. 

_You’re bleeding._

He freezes, and then remembers the two words sitting on his own forearm. They seem to itch. But Joe doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to notice that George has stuttered to a halt. He recovers quickly, finishing and rolling Joe’s sleeves back to his wrists. 

“You can sleep here tonight,” George says, a bit louder than he means to, “I only have the couch, but I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”

Joe looks like he’s already halfway to sleep when he barely nods. He slips down onto his side, still in his boots, and curls in on himself, seemingly content. Before he makes it to his room, George throws him a spare blanket.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, George takes off his shoes and socks. He changes into a clean pair of boxers and a white undershirt. Only when he’s tucked under the covers and has checked for the third time if his door is shut, does he look at his arm. The words he knew would be there stare up at him and George feels… well, he feels nervous and scared and mostly _hopeful._

_Good eye._

 

In the morning, there’s a moment when George doesn’t remember the night before. He pulls himself tighter to his pillow and doesn’t want to open his eyes, only knows that he’s more tired than he’s been in a long time. But then there’s the sound of someone walking around his front room and his eyes fling open, a moment before he remembers who it is. 

He remembers finding some idiot in a dark alley and he remembers cleaning him up and he definitely remembers finding words from his mouth on _this idiot’s arm._

George dresses, by which he means, he puts on pajama pants, and with sleep-mussed hair and a yawn, slowly walks to face his soulmate in the daylight. Joe is sitting where George left him on the couch, scrolling through his phone; when George walks into his line of sight, he jumps a bit. 

“Sorry, sorry,” George says, “I just wanted to see how you were doing.” Joe looks exactly the same as the night before, only now his cheek sports a blue and purple blotch. 

Joe stretches as he stands, pockets his phone, and replies, “I’m alright. Look, I’m sorry about this, I should’ve just gone home.”

“Doubt you would’ve made it, honestly.” George shrugs and walks to the counter of his little kitchen, works to start brewing a pot of coffee. 

“I would’ve.” Joe says, as if George had challenged him. George shrugs. 

“How do you like your coffee?” he asks. 

Joe comes to stand in the middle of the kitchen, hands in his pockets, “I should probably get going,” he says, “my friends are kinda concerned.” He takes out his phone and waves it. 

Shit, George isn’t quite ready for him to leave yet, “Just,” he turns on his heel, “tell them you’re okay and let me give you a cup of coffee.”

Looking around George’s apartment like he might find a reason to protest, Joe sighs and concedes. When the pot is done brewing, they sit as they did last night, Joe on the couch and George positioning himself precariously on his coffee table. Joe takes his coffee black, and George can’t be surprised, finding him in an alley, covered in his own blood. 

George takes a hot sip before asking, “So, do you often find yourself in midnight brawls?”

Joe laughs a little and smiles, a really nice smile, and says, “Maybe more often than the average guy. But it’s not like I make it a habit.”

George isn’t sure he believes him.

“Do you remember last night?”

Joe nods from behind his cup, “Yeah,” his voice is low, “I mean, the fight is kind of fuzzy, but I remember you well enough.” He gestures to George with his free hand. 

George pulls from his gut to ask him, “Do you rememb–?”

But Joe’s phone starts to buzz with incoming texts. When he checks it he makes a frustrated noise and stands, “God, Bill is gonna kick my ass if I don’t go see him,” he says, “Can I use your bathroom before I leave?” 

“Uh,” George tries to ignore the twisting disappointment in his stomach, “sure. It’s right there.”

Joe drops his phone on the couch and heads for the bathroom. When the door shuts, George puts aside his coffee in favor of putting his head in his hands. Damn it, what if he never sees him again? He already feels attached to him, he feels slightly responsible for him. 

But then he spots Joe’s phone. Perco’s voice doesn’t even get consideration this time. He picks it up, finds it gloriously unlocked, and checks the bathroom door before programming his number into the phone. He just puts in “George Luz” because Joe seems like a serious kind of guy; although, what does he know? He’s only been with him for a night. 

The bathroom door swings open more violently than George is expecting and Joe comes out, hurriedly retrieving his coat and phone. “Thanks,” he says and shakes George’s hand before just about running out the door. 

George goes to the door and calls after him, “Stay safe!”

 

Joe: _Is this the guy who found me in the alley?_

George: _Probably. Is this Joe?_

Joe: _Did you program your number in here?_

George: _Uh, yeah._

George: _Also, you left your gloves here. They were bloody so I washed them for you._

 

George is perhaps happier than he should be when he gets the texts from Joe. He saves the number and offers to bring Joe his gloves, agreeing to meet him at a bar on the south side of town. George has never been there, but once he’s inside he decides it’s cozy in a run-down kind of way. Joe is sitting in a corner booth with two other guys, his bruised cheek now yellowing. 

“Hey, George,” he waves him over, “you got my gloves?”

George smiles and strides over, “Yeah,” he says, taking them out of his coat pocket and waving them at Joe and his friends. 

Joe offers him the open seat across from him and George takes it happily. “These are my friends, Bill,” he jabs his thumb next to him, “and Babe.” he points a finger at the guy beside George. They each offer him a hand. 

“How ya doin’?” asks Bill, a dark haired man who talks almost out of the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m doing well,” George is smiling as he slaps the gloves down on the table, “Just glad to get rid of these.” he jokes. 

Joe’s smile is small as he slides the pair toward him and pockets them quietly. 

“We heard you got Pal Joey here out of a scrape,” Babe says and takes a sip from the beer in his hand. “Is that right?”

Shrugging, George says, “I didn’t really get him out of a scrape, more like found him afterward.” 

“We appreciate you lookin’ out for our Joe,” Bill says as he reaches to pat Joe’s head. Joe slaps his arm away before he can, but they’re both smiling. 

“He didn’t want to go to the hospital so–”

“I swear to God.” Babe says. He looks up at the ceiling in disbelief, “You’re a fucking idiot.” he says to Joe. 

“Hospitals are expensive,” Joe defends himself with a shrug and a sip.

“So are funerals.” retorts Bill. 

Joe makes this little laughing sound and says, “I woulda been fine.”

George hums, high pitched and skeptical. “I mean, you were basically passed out when I found you.” he supplies, “You might not have bled to death but it was about 20 degrees outside.”

Joe glares at him, but George can’t find it in himself to be bothered. 

The four find themselves in easy conversation that lasts for the next half hour or so; George is able to make everyone laugh a few times and feels proud for it. Eventually, Joe leaves the other three to take a piss. 

George has bought himself a beer and settled comfortably in his seat. He gestures to Bill and Babe with his beer in hand and asks, “So, how do you two know Joe?”

Bill answers, “Babe and I grew up together in Philly, when we moved here Joe just sort of,” he moves his hands in a vague gesture, “found us. We’ve been friends for a few years now.”

George hums in acknowledgement. 

“What we want to know,” Bill continues, “is how you know Joe.”

George furrows his brow; he doesn’t understand. “We told you how we met.”

“No, no,” Bill holds up a hand and shakes his head, “listen, Joe doesn’t forget shit with people he doesn’t know.”

“What? The gloves?” George tries. 

Bill nods minutely and looks at the bathroom door, “And even if he did, he doesn’t invite people to sit with us.”

Babe comes in, “He’s not really a people person.”

Laughing, George says, “Yeah, I got that much.”

“So, what is it with you?” Bill asks, “Why’d he take to you?”

George’s heart beats faster. What’s happening? Did Joe remember what George first said to him? Did he realize before George even had? Maybe it was just an unavoidable side effect of being soulmates. God, that word makes his stomach flip.

“I couldn’t tell you.” he replies.

Joe comes back, oblivious to the conversation between his friends, and tells them all he thinks he’s going to head home. The four part ways before George can talk with him.

 

 

The next afternoon George goes to Lip’s apartment, hoping to get some sympathy or maybe some advice. He knocks on the door until Lip opens up, looking disoriented and a little peeved. 

“Oh, George.” he says by way of greeting. George shoulders past him into the room and plops himself down on the cushy sofa that’s older than Lip.

“I’m dying.” he says without much feeling. 

Lip takes a seat on top of George’s legs where they’re splayed out, “What do you want, Luz?”

“I met my soulmate.”

That seems to take Lip by surprise, he sort of stutters and looks at George with a fair amount of disbelief. “You did?”

“Yeah, I found him in an alley covered in blood.” George adjusts so he’s closer to sitting and waits for Lip’s response. 

“What?”

“I helped patch him up after a fight,” George explains, “I saw the words on his arm before I realized he’d said mine.”

Carwood moves so he can lay George’s legs over his lap. “So why are you dying?”

Lip sounds unconvinced of George’s torment. And George gets it, honestly. Carwood is older than him and has yet to meet his soulmate and the “Please, don’t” on his arm isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. 

“I patched him up,” George says, “but he was too out of it to realize what I’d said.”

“Have you seen him since?” 

George scrubs a hand over his face and replies, “Yeah, once, but I didn’t get to talk with him then, either.”

Lip is silent for a while; he absentmindedly runs is hands over George’s shins. He looks to George and says, “You know you’re gonna have to talk to him.”

George hauls himself up and places his feet on the ground, “Fuck, I know,” he groans, “I’m kinda terrified, Lip.”

“What’s there to be terrified of?” Lip smiles, “He’ll love you.”

Lip is right, of course, the case is rarely otherwise. George nods and Lip stands from the couch, encourages him to nap. He does; that couch is so damn comfortable. 

When he wakes, Carwood has gone to work, left him a note, and George has a couple of messages buzzing into his phone.

Joe: _What kind of idiot takes home a stranger from an alley?_

Joe: _I could’ve killed you. What were you thinking?_

George smiles until it hurts.

George: _I was thinking you were gonna freeze to death._

George: _Plus, you weren’t much of a threat in your state._

Joe: _You don’t know a thing, George Luz._

George walks to his apartment in a happy haze, the cold forgotten and his phone warm in his pocket. Joe still makes him nervous, but Joe doesn’t like people and he somehow likes George. At least enough to text him for no real reason, and that fucking delights George. 

Once he’s inside, he puts on coffee and gets out his phone. He gets the nerve and sends a text. 

George: _I know some things. For instance, I know you take your coffee black. If you come over, I’ll make you some._

He doesn’t receive a reply. 

 

Perhaps a week later, George is sitting in his bedroom, on his computer, doing his best to ignore the fact that he is _still_ disappointed about Joe. It’s nearly 11 when George shuts everything down and gets in the shower. By the time he’s in clean boxers and an undershirt, trying to towel-dry his hair, he hears his doorbell ring. And ring and ring and ring. George delicately makes his way to the door, peers through the peephole to see a fisheye version of Joe staring back at him. 

He opens the door and that smile is there, weaker than expected. And Joe is, fuck Joe is bloody again. What the Hell? Without thinking, George wraps an arm around Joe’s chest and helps him inside, sits him on the couch like the day they met. 

“What’ve you been doin’ to yourself?” George asks softly. 

Joe is still smiling; although, his head is tilted back. “You think I did this?”

George keeps talking as he gets a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. “You said you didn’t make it a habit.”

“What constitutes a habit?” George smiles; Joe seems to be more aware of himself than he was last time. 

Sitting down on the coffee table, George takes to washing the side of Joe’s face and he thinks he hears Joe hum. “Why’d you come here?” He moves to clean Joe’s mouth. 

“I guess I like you, George.”

George laughs through his nose and wets the cloth again. Carefully cleaning the bit of blood on the side of Joe’s neck and collarbone, he asks, “Why’s that?” He wonders if Joe knows and will admit it. 

But Joe shrugs and mumbles something noncommittal. When Joe is basically clean, George get’s him out of his coat to check over him a bit. He taps him on the cheek a few times.

“Joe.”

He lifts his head slowly and looks at George with milky brown eyes. George can feel himself blushing as he takes Joe’s wrist and rolls up his sleeve. 

He speaks softly and sweetly, “Do you remember the first thing I said to you?”

Joe hums, maybe not entirely sure where this is going, and shakes his head. “I mostly remember you cleaning me up.”

George still holds Joe’s wrist when he says, “I said you were bleeding.” He gently raises Joe’s arm for him to read, as if he doesn’t know what’s written there.

Joe’s eyes widen in recognition and he looks to George with something that resembles fear. 

“You told me I had a good eye,” he exposes his forearm to show him the words there. 

Joe’s face softens and he asks, “Did you know?” George can’t get over his small smile. 

“I saw them when I was cleaning you up the first time.” George admits, “I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

Joe leans forward, touches George’s cheek, “Earlier, Luz” he says an inch away, “earlier.”

He kisses George softly, both hands coming up to cup his face. George sighs into it, more relieved than he thought he’d be. He kisses back, trying to give all of himself because this is the best thing he’s ever felt. Kissing his soulmate is the best thing he’s ever felt. He places his hands on Joe’s shoulders, just wanting to get to him however he can. 

Joe gets a little gasp out of him when he lifts him up and pulls him onto his lap. George takes Joe’s bottom lip between his teeth to tease him, giggles into Joe’s mouth when he chases after him. When Joe gets his hands in George’s hair he pulls a moan from him and Joe takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. 

George grinds down and can feel Joe smile against him. “Jesus, I missed you.” he says, forehead against Joe’s. 

“Missed me?” Joe asks and George is giddy to hear he’s almost breathless.

“I don’t know,” George kisses him again, “I can’t explain it.”

Joe holds his hands along the back of George’s neck, kisses at his throat, “No,” he says, “no, I understand.”

Joe carries him to bed with George’s legs wrapped around him. It surprises George and he gasps too loudly and Joe laughs at him. Joe lays George down and takes him out of his shirt and boxers, spreading wide hands across his stomach and his legs. All the while, George tries to kiss Joe at every opportunity and get him out of his blood stained shirt. Eventually, Joe takes pity on him and strips himself.

When he crawls on top of George, Joe takes a moment to close his eyes and press against him. “Fuck, I wanna take you apart.”

When he gets his hands on George, it doesn’t take very long. George is delirious with it, moving and moaning and talking into Joe’s mouth. He arches his back and moves his hips and with the feeling of Joe’s smile against the side of his face and a kiss to his temple, it’s over. George cries out and Joe swallows it down, holds George’s hips to the bed. 

Coming down from his high, George blinks his eyes open to find Joe smiling at him, soft and warm. George’s chest heaves and he grins, rolling and pinning Joe to the bed. George suspects Joe lets him; he’s pretty sure if he didn’t want it, he could toss George clear across the room. 

George holds the back of Joe’s neck with one hand and gets the other wrapped around him. He stays close to him, kissing his neck, listening to the way his breath hitches, adoring the way he rambles incoherently and grasps desperately onto George. When he comes, Joe is beautiful and makes no noise except a quiet gasp.

George falls in love. The same way he fell in love when he found Joe in the alley. The same way he fell in love when he found the words on his arm. Lying in bed, legs tangled together, George falls in love. Joe runs a hand through his hair and George turns his head to kiss his wrist. 

George reaches for the blankets and covers both of them, tucks himself close to Joe and wraps an arm around him. 

He hears Joe mumble, “Yeah, I missed you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yay Soulmate AU!  
> Kudos and comments are adored!  
> Come say hi on tumblr @ackackh.tumblr.com


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